


Broken

by geekmama



Series: Time of the Season [19]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 11:07:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10512519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: Nine-year-old Rosie Watson had made a promise and she intended to keep it.Desperate times called for desperate measures.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the 'Broken' prompt.
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> *********************

It was the dark of the moon, so it would have been difficult to keep track of the grubby figure that darted from shadow to shadow in this wild little corner of Regent’s Park, even if she’d not been Rosie Watson and well versed in subterfuge and covert maneuvers as young as she was (nine years, five months, and twelve days, and _going on twenty_ , if her daddy were to be believed). Whether it was nature -- she _was_ her mother’s daughter, as had been stated, and, indeed, proven time and again -- or nurture -- Daddy and Uncle Sherlock probably didn’t even realize how much they’d taught her and Will and Jon in the years they’d all been flitting about London -- Rosie had had no trouble escaping from her second story bedroom window with her school backpack full of needed supplies, then making her way first to the Tube, to the park, and then slipping within its borders, all the while avoiding the prying eyes of the CTV cameras that were monitored day and night by Uncle Mycroft and his minions. She had left her mobile phone behind, too, so there was no chance of being tracked that way, but that worried her a little, since it also meant she would have no way to call for help if it was needed. However, there was nothing for it. She’d made a promise and she intended to keep it. 

Desperate times called for desperate measures. 

The park was very dark and more than a bit scary at this very late hour (far later than she’d ever been out on her own), but fortunately she was able to locate the path that ran by the stream, and within a few minutes there was the bridge over it as Will had described, a dim light at either end to mark it. Then, when she was approaching, she could just make him out, emerging from beneath the bridge, a darker shadow among the surrounding shrubbery. 

“Will!” she breathed, trotted quickly up to him and pulled him into a relieved hug. 

To her surprise and concern, he did not try to squirm out of her embrace, as he would ordinarily have done, but on the contrary, clung to her a bit, and even gave a kind of sob. 

“Are you alright?” she asked, her cheek against his dark curls. “Where’s Jon?”.

But now Jon was emerging from under the bridge, too, and though the light was faint, Rosie could just see that his little white face was streaked with tears. 

“Jon!” she said in a grieved whisper, and Will took this as his cue, straightening and pushing away, and swiping at his own tears with a dirty, impatient hand. 

“Come on,” he said, leading her to their hiding place under the bridge, his arm going about his little brother’s shoulders as they reached him. “Jon, don’t cry, Rosie’s here now and it’ll be alright, you’ll see.” 

But Jon whimpered, “No it won’t. It’ll never be alright again.” 

Rosie took off her backpack and the three of them sat down in the deep shadows of the boys’ chosen lair -- fortunately there was a little grass under the bridge, so it wasn’t too muddy. 

Rosie steeled herself and said, “Well, it _will_ be alright, because this is never going to work and they’ll find you and take you home again. They’re _all_ out looking for you!” 

“You promised you wouldn’t say anything!” Will said, sounding both angry and frightened. 

“I _won’t!_ ” Rosie said, “but it won’t matter, Will, you’re only seven, and Jon’s not much more than a baby! You have to go home!” 

“I’m not a baby!” Jon sulked. 

Rosie sniffed. “Well, your fifth birthday was only two weeks ago, so you’re not much more.” She began to unzip the backpack. 

Jon gave a sort of gulping sob, and said in a small voice, “That was a good day, wasn’t it, Will? Do you think we’ll _ever_ be able to have another party?” 

“Of course,” Will snapped, helping Rosie unpack the comestibles and the blanket she’d brought. “We’ll have loads of parties when we’re grown up -- after we’ve bought Dad a new violin.” 

“Speaking of his violin,” said Rosie, “how on earth did you manage to make such a mess? Daddy says the music stand was broken as well, and the sheets of music were all over the place.” 

“We were just having a bit of a barney and it got out of hand,” mumbled Will. 

Jon said, “I pushed him and he fell, right over the stand and _smash_ on the violin. Dad had it in its case, but it wasn’t closed, and…” But his voice, having started out sounding rather chuffed at his success in knocking his big brother down, now became suspended by tears, apparently at the thought of the irreparable damage they’d done to Uncle Sherlock’s prized instrument. 

“It was worth a fortune. Probably _millions_ ,” Will said, morosely. “He’ll _kill_ us if he finds us. Mummy, too.” 

“She left you by yourselves?” Rosie asked. She knew Aunt Molly was deeply regretting doing that. 

Will said, “We were watching telly and I told her I’d keep an eye on Jon. And Mrs. Hudson was downstairs -- or just at Speedy’s, at least. Mummy only took Daisy down to Boots ‘cause she’d used the last nappy.” 

“And you couldn’t be good even for a few minutes?” 

Jon said, resentfully, “Will wouldn’t give me the remote and I wanted to change the channel. _Thomas_ was coming on.” 

“I hate _Thomas the Tank_!” Will said, with real loathing. 

“That’s because you’re _stupid!_ ” Jon shot back. 

“You--” Will began, but Rosie gave Will a sharp smack on the arm and he yelped instead. 

“You _both_ deserve killing!” she snapped, “after your mum’s told you time and again not to go brawling in the flat!” Both boys fell silent, unable to deny the justice of this observation, and Rosie took this opportunity to fish out the small torch that had fallen to the bottom of the backpack. “Look here,” she said, lighting it, “I’ve brought you food -- well, what I could.” 

She had only felt able to take such items as would not be readily missed. There were two tins of sardines, a half loaf of now rather squashed bread, a jar of Mrs. Hudson’s apricot preserves, Christmas biscuits in a decorative tin that had not been opened at the holidays and had ended up in the back of the pantry, and several fresh apples from a bag of a dozen Daddy had brought home from the shops just the day before. 

“Sardines?” Will said, with the same loathing he’d reserved for _Thomas the Tank_. 

“They’re good!” Rosie said, defensively. “And you’ll need protein if you’re to be living rough. Good job it’s summer and not as cold at night as it might be.” 

“I’m glad you brought us a blanket though,” Jon said. “Thank you for helping us, Rosie.” 

“Yes,” said Will, gruffly. “But you won’t say anything?” 

“No,” said Rosie, sadly. “But they won’t _really_ kill you, you know. They’ll be very angry, of course -- well, they already are! And so worried about you. I know I promised not to say anything when you called -- where did you get a phone, anyway?” 

“Borrowed it from some girl,” Will said. “Told her we’d lost ours and had to call home.” 

Rosie nodded. “Well, it was horrid having to not tell them. Your parents thought you might have run away to our house, and when you weren’t there your mum cried! -- and Daisy, too.” 

“Daisy’s always crying,” said Will, but sadly. 

“We’ll never see her again, will we?” Jon added, and gave a shuddering sniff. 

Rosie sighed. “You have to go back,” she insisted. “The longer you stay out here the worse it’ll be. I won’t say a word, I’ll keep my promise. But I want you both to think about it. Okay?” 

Jon nodded, looking miserable. Will pressed his lips together, his little face, so like his father’s, very pale under the tangled curls. 

“I’ll be back tomorrow, as soon as I can,” Rosie said. She gave each of them a kiss and a quick hug, to which neither objected, and then got to her feet. “Get some sleep, if you can. That’s a nice, warm blanket, and the sound of that stream over the stones is lovely.” 

As she left the shelter of the bridge, she had to steady herself pretty firmly to keep from weeping when two plaintive little goodbyes came from the darkness behind her.

 

*

 

A while later, Rosie was climbing into her bedroom window once more, silent as a cat, and confident she’d succeeded in getting away with her clandestine mission. This assertion lasted for approximately ten seconds after her feet met the floor and she’d pulled off her knit cap and tossed it on the bed. Then the overhead light went on and she was gasping at the sight of her father standing inside her bedroom door, a quite deadly look on his face. 

“D-daddy!” she stammered, when he did not immediately speak. 

There was another moment of tense silence, during which the thudding of her heart was the loudest thing in the room. Then he took a deep breath, glared at her, straightened himself, soldier-fashion, and said, “We’ll have a talk about this later -- and likely more than _a talk_ , as you’ve gone way past the line, this time. _Way_ past. Come on.” He crossed the distance between them in what seemed the blink of an eye and took her upper arm in a firm grip. “We’re going downstairs.” 

Rosie had a dreadful feeling she knew what -- or who -- was downstairs, but it turned out to be even worse than she’d feared. Uncle Sherlock was there, looking very grim, but so was his brother, Uncle Mycroft, his eyes freezing the soul within her. 

“So here she is,” Rosie’s father said, and let her go with a very small shove toward these two beloved but very formidable men. 

Rosie swallowed hard, but had to ask: “H-how did you know?” 

Uncle Mycroft’s face expressed just the tiniest bit of amusement. “You thought you were quite clever at avoiding the CTV cameras, didn’t you? But perhaps you didn’t know there is one trained on the side of your house, with an excellent view of your bedroom window.” He shrugged. “We keep your father’s home under light surveillance, just in case. Apparently we were wise to do so.” 

And now Uncle Sherlock spoke, his voice low but hard-edged. “Where are they, Rosie? You _know_ where they are, _don’t you_.” 

Rosie’s eyes pricked with tears, but she firmed her lips and tilted her chin. 

And Uncle Sherlock suddenly gave a helpless laugh. “God, John, she’s Mary _to the life!_ ” And then he came to her, swiftly, went down on one knee and took up her hand in a firm clasp. 

She gave an involuntary, gasping sob. 

“Tell me, where are they?” he said, his voice gentler now. 

“I can’t _say!_ ” Rosie said, and bit her lip, failing to entirely hold back her tears. “I p-promised!” 

Uncle Sherlock’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. And then he said, “Can you _show_ us?” 

And Rosie breathed a huge sigh of relief, gave a watery laugh, and threw her arms about Uncle Sherlock’s neck.

 

*

 

It was past midnight by the time they were approaching the bridge. Rosie had barely spoken during the journey, just led the three men with a sureness that had them smiling grimly at times, but now she stopped about twenty feet away from where she knew the boys would now be sleeping, turned, and caught at Uncle Sherlock’s coat sleeve. 

“Please don’t hurt them,” she pleaded in little more than a whisper. “They’re so frightened and so very sorry. I tried to get them to come back, but…” 

Uncle Sherlock bent and kissed her on her forehead, his eyes sad, a crooked smile on his lips. Then he said to Rosie, her father, and Uncle Mycroft, “Stay here, please.” 

As Uncle Sherlock moved off, Rosie bit her lip and dropped back to take her father’s hand, quite forgetting how angry he had been with her. He squeezed her hand, though, warm and firm, and then she remembered and looked up at him. He was looking down at her, and though it was difficult to tell in the darkness, she thought perhaps he didn’t look quite as angry as he had before. 

Uncle Sherlock reached the bridge and disappeared into the shadowed darkness. Presently there were some sounds, a startled, “Dad? _Dad!_ ”, and then a longish period of childish whining, whimpering, and weeping interspersed with snatches of low-pitched scolding and other conversation. 

Uncle Mycroft gave a sigh and looked up at the stars. 

Rosie and her daddy sat down side by side on the grassy bank of the stream. 

It was a long time before Uncle Sherlock emerged from under the bridge, but when he did, he was carrying Jon, wrapped in the blanket. He came up to them as Rosie and her father got to their feet again. 

“Can you take him, Mycroft?” Uncle Sherlock asked. 

“Most certainly,” Uncle Mycroft murmured, and added, “Jonathan Mycroft Vernet Holmes, what are we going to do with you?” 

Jon clung to his uncle, snuffling. 

Uncle Sherlock turned and there was William, coming out of the shadows, now, rather hesitantly. His father walked back to him, picked him up, and held him. Uncle Sherlock was heard to say to Will, “I can’t carry you all the way back, you know. You’re getting far too big.” 

“Just a little way?” begged Will, his voice a bit teary, his forehead tucked against his father’s neck. 

“A little way, yes.” 

Uncle Sherlock smiled and winked at Rosie as he drew even with them, but as he moved ahead, Will looked at her over his father’s shoulder. “You told them!” he said, accusingly. 

“I _showed_ them,” Rosie said firmly. “I never _said_ a word! _”_  

Uncle Mycroft lifted a brow at Rosie, exchanged a speaking glance with her daddy, and then moved off after his brother, easily carrying the blanket-wrapped Jon. 

Rosie and her father brought up the rear, still holding hands. 

“So was that your plan?” Daddy asked, sounding amused now. 

Rosie gave a great inward sigh of relief. “I _promised_ , Daddy. To bring them supplies and to not _say_ anything.” 

And he laughed, though not altogether happily. “Promises,” he said. “Bloody promises. We may have to have a bit of talk about that, too, young lady.” 

“But… just talk?” Rosie asked in a small voice. 

Daddy looked down at her and his smile was gentle. “Yeah. Just talk. You really are the image of your mother, you know.” He raised his eyes to the path ahead and muttered, “God help me.”

  
  
~.~


End file.
